The oak, when living, monarch of the wood;
	The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.

Churchill.    

	Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
	Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
	Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

Keats.    

	The tall Oak, towering to the skies,
	The fury of the wind defies,
	From age to age, in virtue strong.
	Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

Montgomery.    

	The monarch oak, the patriarch of the trees,
	Shoots rising up, and spreads by slow degrees.
	Three centuries he grows, and three he stays
	Supreme in state; and in three more decays.

Dryden.    

	A sturdy oak, which nature forms
	To brave a hundred winter’s storms,
	While round its head the whirlwinds blow,
	Remains with root infix’d below:
	When fell’d to earth, a ship it sails
	Through dashing waves and driving gales
	And now at sea, again defies
	The threat’ning clouds and howling skies.

Hoole.    

	A song to the oak, the brave old oak,
	Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
	Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown,
	And his fifty arms so strong.
	There’s fear in his frown when the Sun goes down,
	And the fire in the West fades out;
	And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
	When the storms through his branches shout.

H. F. Chorley.